


you're no god

by thefudge



Series: mr. and mrs. holmes [1]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer
Genre: Banter, F/M, Light Angst, Pining, oh the pining, ost: laura marling - you're no god, sherlock basically plays himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26691700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was facing a rather strange predicament. And her name was Edith Grayston.
Relationships: Edith Grayston/Sherlock Holmes
Series: mr. and mrs. holmes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952764
Comments: 60
Kudos: 284





	you're no god

**Author's Note:**

> *points at that one sherlock/edith scene in the movie* it's free real estate!  
> anyway, yes. he's besotted. i take no feedback. 
> 
> (kidding, please let me know if you like it!)

Sherlock Holmes was facing a rather strange predicament. And her name was Edith Grayston. 

To say that she had left an impression on him would be a poor understatement.

She had surprised him, almost unpleasantly. But then again, all things worth knowing do that, at first. 

Perhaps this was why he went to see her again. 

On his second visit to her establishment, Sherlock was almost disappointed to see she was not wielding her famous teapot.

Instead, Edith gave him a bundle of books to give Enola. 

"Her mother's required reading," she explained, brushing her hands. 

"And what do you have for me, Miss Grayston?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye. It usually worked wonders. 

But Edith only frowned. "The back door. You'll scare my customers if you walk out the front." 

Sherlock swallowed a grin. Oh, she was something else.

How had his mother found her? On his third visit, he asked her just that. 

"I suppose great women will run into each other from time to time," she drawled sardonically, taking out a fragrant batch of pies from the oven. 

Sherlock laughed. There was a small drop of flour on her left cheek and he was loath to tell her about it, because it complimented her so well. 

She sat him down and put a small cake before him. 

"Oh, I'm not much for sweet things."

"Try this one," she said, not giving him a way out.

And he was surprised to find that he not only liked it, but was inclined to eat the whole thing.

Edith watched him smugly.

He knew that it was only professional pride on her part and yet, inexplicably, he found himself blushing.

He still left through the back door. 

Blushing. Him. _Odd_. 

Must not do it again. 

But somehow, at the height of a nastily thorny case, he went to see her. 

He couldn't disclose the particulars, nor the members of good society involved, but he gave her some salient details and Edith listened patiently as she baked. 

She commented from time to time, always with much aplomb, and he found that some of the thorniness dissipated in her presence. 

It wasn't that she offered him a way out of it. It wasn't arrogance to say he was still a better deductionist. But she reminded him of real-world consequences, reminded him that people were much more complicated than the cut of their shoe and the way they spelled their name. 

Twice she had to kick him out for overstaying his welcome, but he could tell she enjoyed the work, both his and hers. 

Oh dear, was he forming a permanent acquaintance? 

He was walking with Mycroft past one of the perfumed emporiums he would not have entered under pain of death when he saw a lovely, delicately encrusted ivory comb, advertised in the window display. 

And he stupidly thought, _Edith might like it._

He had no point of reference for that supposition. He just felt she might. How curious. 

"I say, where are you going?" Mycroft asked, blinking his surprise. 

"I've just remembered I need a new cravat." 

When he presented Edith the comb, he said it was a gift from one of his clients. He had no use for it. Might she want it?

Edith took it from his hands and held it between hers. He watched her carefully, eager to note her reaction. 

"Do you know how many elephants die for these vain commodities?" 

Sherlock opened his mouth. Closed it. Oh, hell, he had cocked it up. He knew he would. 

And then Edith smiled and knocked his elbow. "Just teasing you. It's very pretty, thank you." 

That must have been the second time he blushed.

Really, _truly_ must not do it again. 

Sometimes, if the case was truly rotten, he would vent his frustration out loud, wondering what he had missed, because he knew the truth was always there. It was just hiding very well. 

And Edith would say, "Give it time. Let it sleep."

And he would say, "There isn't any time. I must know _now_. And I never sleep." 

And she'd give him a look and say, "Sure you do. You're no god."

And somehow, that sounded like a challenge. Oh, would she like him to go toe to toe with deities? Because he _could_. 

Eventually, when the truth struck him on the head and he went to her and told her all about it, all she said was, "See. All you needed was a good night's sleep."

And he really wanted to tell her off and kiss her at the same time. 

Wait, no.

Surely not kiss. 

When she left on some secret business to the countryside for a fortnight (no doubt his mother's doing), he felt restless. Of course, he would have liked to talk about his current case with her. But it was more than that. He had developed a routine. He liked his routine. He did not like disruptions. 

Mycroft quickly noticed his brother was out of sorts, and he made the mistake of asking him what was wrong.

Sherlock snapped at him. 

"My, my. You haven't shown your teeth in a while," his brother remarked in that aloof, irritating way of his. "Bee in your bonnet?" 

Sherlock glared. "It's nothing. Merely an inconvenience."

But what an inconvenience she was turning out to be. 

Well, it was just as well. 

He wouldn't go back to her shop. 

Sherlock enjoyed the bare-knuckled anonymity of ring-fighting, being a body among many, using his strength in less clever but more unbridled and satisfying ways. He liked forgetting himself. Therefore, it took him much longer than usual to notice Miss Edith Grayston in the cheering, belligerent crowd. She was the only one _not_ cheering.

He had not seen in her weeks. Her physical presence was suddenly quite a distraction. 

Not that he lost the match. But he earned himself a few knocks that could have been avoided.

Nevertheless, as soon as he escaped the ring, he went in search of her, buttoning his jacket haphazardly.

He found Edith at the bar – or what served for a bar in this place – tending to a young boy’s wounds. The blood was almost as dark as his skin.

“I told you you weren’t ready,” she chided him. “But you wanted to fight.” 

“Actually, it’s considered good luck to shed blood after your first match. It honours the sport,” Sherlock found himself saying.

Edith’s hand stilled. She looked over her shoulder severely. “Wouldn’t have thought a man like you took to superstition.”

“Old wives’ tales do impart wisdom sometimes,” he replied, eyes swimming with mischief. Something about her no-nonsense attitude always brought out a very impish side of him.

Edith wiped the boy’s face clean and slipped a coin in his hand. “Go on off, Teddy. Buy yourself a pint.”

Sherlock watched the boy go. “He wasn’t cut up too badly. Must have given the other fellow something to talk about.”

Edith folded her arms, sizing him up.

“And how may I help you, Mr. Holmes?”

She was not wearing her usual prim tea-shop mistress’ gown. This green dress did not button all the way to her chin. He had never really appreciated the colour green before.

 _I've missed you_ , he was almost tempted to say, which was awfully, terribly foolish.

Of course he hadn't. 

“I only came by to say hello," he said instead. "I did not know you frequented such venues. I thought you subscribed to the higher martial arts, not grubby street-fighting.”

“There’s plenty of art in grubby street-fighting,” she replied coolly.

“On that we agree. I’m surprised you aren’t fighting yourself.”

Edith raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think it would be very fair to the men.”

Sherlock grinned. “Indeed. And how is your little tea-shop going?”

He winced. He hadn’t meant for that to sound condescending.

Edith narrowed her eyes. “Going well, thank you. As long as you and your brother stay out of it.”

“Oh, you couldn’t get Mycroft to set foot in that part of town if you promised him the Crown Jewels.” 

The corners of Edith’s mouth lifted a little, though she tried to hide it. Sherlock wondered if he could actually make her laugh. It felt like a real challenge.

“However, I’d bet anything that if he tried your custards, you’d have him wrapped around your little finger. Unlike me, he has a terrible sweet tooth, though he likes to hide it from everyone.”

Edith rolled her eyes, though she did look amused. “So, you’ve just come over to talk about pies?”

Sherlock wiped the remnant beads of sweat from his brow. Suppose his conversation was not up to snuff. Admittedly, he was at a disadvantage, as he was flustered and a little out of breath after a match. But…judging by the way her eyes strayed to his half-open jacket, perhaps it wasn’t so much of a disadvantage.

He leaned a little closer. “While I admire your culinary skills, you know I’m more interested in the rest of your arsenal. I find it unfair that only my mother gets to have the pleasure of your company.”

"I'm not stopping you from paying a visit. You haven't, lately." 

So, she had noticed. Had she minded his absence, he wondered? 

"Very well, but... I might require exclusivity." 

" _Exclusivity_?" she echoed in disbelief. "Well, her majesty can require all she likes." 

"I believe her majesty _would_ be quite impressed with you, all things considered."

Edith wiped her hands on a small cloth. “Is this how you win all your cases, Mr. Holmes? Shameless flattery?”

He grinned. “Is it working?”

Edith looked down to hide a smile. That was two, Sherlock noted proudly.

“Hardly. I don’t wish to work for you.”

“Not _for_ me. Not even _with_ me, for men say that all the time, but they mostly mean the former. No, I only hope you’ll allow me to consult you from time to time, as you already have.”

"But?"

"But when I do, I require your full attention." 

He thought she would scoff again, but she only eyed him warily. 

“Why?”

“Because you see what I can’t, Miss Grayston. Your point of view is different, yet invaluable. You might do some good. Well, _more_ good than you already are. And, in that way, you wouldn't be working for me, but rather for good itself.”

All right, he may have laid it on thick, but he knew it was the truth. And sometimes truth was a little sentimental. Enola had taught him that. 

Edith snorted. “A pretty speech. And you’ve come to this conclusion all by yourself?”

“Let’s just say that our chats have been on my mind. _Are_ on my mind,” he replied, this time with no trace of humour.

Edith sobered. She looked at him a little askance, as if she had been caught off-guard.

Quite rare for her.

“Well…I’m glad you listened.”

"So, is that a yes?"

She smiled reluctantly. "We'll see." 

Sherlock couldn’t help feeling a little triumphant. “Shall I walk you back to your lodgings? It is quite late.”

Edith stood taller. “Thank you, but I can take care of myself.” 

“I’m sure you can, but all the same, it is the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Edith laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “Believe me, if you’re seen walking with me in the dead of night you won’t be considered a gentleman anymore.”

Sherlock frowned. Yes, he took her meaning. And he felt the inkling of something like anger. He realized it was only a fraction of what she must feel.

He shrugged. “That’s all right. I don’t put much stock in that title, at least not in its current denomination.”

Edith raised her chin and smiled. “Well, look at you, Mr. Holmes. Already sounding like a dangerous radical.”

He smirked. “Perish the thought.”

London fog was thick enough to spread on toast and eat. Fittingly, the flickering lampposts colored it butter-yellow. Sherlock could barely see Edith at his side. He took her hand in his and placed it in the crook of his arm. He did not have to look at her face to register her shock. He felt it immediately in her elevated pulse. He smiled.

“What are you playing at?” she whispered, tugging her hand away, but he held it fast.

“Let us enjoy the cover of fog, shall we?” he whispered and pulled her closer.

Edith’s pulse was still inordinately high. She was quite nervous, but he was pretty sure her nerves were now of a different nature.

They walked in silence for a while and it was amiable enough, but there was a hint of tension, of something undisclosed. He felt as if he were on the brink of solving a case.

“Did you happen to watch me fight?” he asked at length, guiding her away from a puddle.

Edith held his arm gingerly. “I did.”

“Was I any good?” he drawled.

“Your stance was correct and your left hook was decent, but your mind was elsewhere. That’s no good in a fight. You need to be present,” she replied in that matronly way she probably used on her students and he found he liked it. Quite a bit.

“Ah, that. I suppose I did have something on my mind. Or someone.”

“Someone?” she echoed.

“A woman.”

“Really. Has the great Sherlock Holmes finally met a lady who’s turned his head? Your mother will be happy to know.”

Sherlock made a face. “Dear God, don’t bring _her_ into it.”

And Edith finally laughed. He felt a small thrill.

“Well, here we are,” she said, as they neared the tea shop. “Thank you for walking me, foolish though it was.”

She was about to remove her hand, when he suddenly caught her wrist.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about the lady?”

Edith looked down at his hand over hers. She swallowed, glanced both ways. There was nobody in sight. Though she did not feel in danger, there was something about this encounter that struck her as very dangerous, indeed.

“Go on, ask me,” he beckoned her.

Oh, how she hated the Holmeses.

“I’m sure she’s a fine, sharp thing. You wouldn’t put up with a simpleton.”

“No, I certainly wouldn’t,” he said, looking down at her intently.

Edith wanted to tell him to stop playing. It was well enough to flirt and tease, but it was no good – in fact, it was quite cruel – to allude to anything more.

“You can let go of my hand now,” she mumbled.

“Are you rushing somewhere?” he asked silkily and his thumb stroked her knuckles. 

Edith steeled herself.

“Not everyone can play at life, Mr. Holmes,” she said, wrenching herself from his grip. 

“I’m not playing –”

“Yes, you are,” she cut him off angrily. “I’m – I’m not a curiosity for you to poke at.”

Sherlock’s face fell. “Edith.”

She shook her head. “You want to be a gentleman? You want to protect me? Then stop looking at me like that.”

Sherlock took a step back. “I apologize. I would never treat you as a plaything. Truly, you must believe me.”

Edith’s expression softened. She sighed. “I know, but you don’t realize how different our worlds are.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “So different that we may not remain friends?”

Edith shifted from one foot to the other. “You wish only to be friends?”

 _No_ , he thought. “Yes,” he said. “That is all I ask.”

He offered her his hand to shake. After a while, she did.

“There. And you will let me know when I overstep my bounds again, won’t you?” he said with a small smile.

Edith rolled her eyes. “Off with you, Mr. Holmes. I have a full day tomorrow.”

He watched her climb up the stairs and unlock the door. He watched her disappear inside. And he waited until he saw a light upstairs. He thought he saw her shadow, crossing the window. She must be walking up and down her room. He smiled.

While it was true that it was Mycroft who was the fastidious brother, Sherlock was the spoilt one. He was not callous, but he was selfish. Edith had been right. He was no god, but he vied for the title. He recognized this selfishness, this self-centeredness. He knew that his desires were not reasonable. He knew Miss Grayston was right about the order of the world, and yet he couldn’t quite settle for friendship.

No, friendship would never do. It was as Enola had said; this world needed changing.

Edith parted the curtains an inch. She saw him, still standing there in the street, looking up at her window. She closed the curtains quickly.

Sherlock’s smile widened.

The chase was on.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] you're no god](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26925418) by [disastermovie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disastermovie/pseuds/disastermovie)




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